


fraternization

by INMH



Series: hc_bingo fanfiction fills 2019 [45]
Category: Final Fantasy Type-0
Genre: (tonberry cockblocks bashtar like the tiny knife-wielding boss that he is), Alcohol, Angst, Angst and Humor, Drama, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Content, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 10:23:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21509527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: Pre-Game. Kurasame wakes up with regrets.
Relationships: Kurasame Susaya & Kurasame Susaya's Tonberry, Qator Bashtar/Kurasame Susaya
Series: hc_bingo fanfiction fills 2019 [45]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1377172
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	fraternization

_This was a mistake._  
  
Kurasame curls in on himself and shuts his eyes.  
  
 _This was **such** a mistake._  
  
If anyone finds out about this, he’ll go the way of the rest of the Four Champions of Rubrum, the friends he doesn’t even truly remember. There are members of the Consortium just bitter and venomous enough to consider this an unofficial act of treason, regardless of how much alcohol was involved.  
  
 _I should have stayed in last night._  
  
From beyond the misery void that Kurasame currently inhabits, a voice rises:  
  
“Call off the Tonberry.”  
  
The voice is rough and raspy, and if not for the fact that Kurasame has already seen the owner’s face, he might not have known who it belonged to.  
  
As it is, he does recognize it, and wants to die.  
  
Kurasame can hear his little Tonberry growling, probably brandishing its knife too, and he should probably do something about that before things get even hairier than they already are. That being said, it’s a bit difficult to move and speak when it feels like his head is packed with cotton and acid.  
  
“Go away,” The voice grunts.  
  
The growling gets deeper, more threatening.  
  
“Stop,” Kurasame croaks, reaching out and patting around where he thinks the Tonberry is. “Stop. It’s fine. Just stop.”  
  
The growling lessens slightly.  
  
When he can’t find the Tonberry through touch, Kurasame opens his eyes. A blurry green and black figure is plopped down between him and the other person in the bed, with- as predicted- his knife pulled out, pointed at the intruder. Kurasame reaches out and wraps an arm around the Tonberry, pulling it to his chest so that the other figure on the bed is out of stabbing range.  
  
The Tonberry huffs, dissatisfied.  
  
“Just be quiet for a few minutes,” Kurasame mumbles, shutting his eyes again. Opening them to focus on the Tonberry had made him dizzy again.  
  
The Tonberry falls silent.  
  
Time becomes fluid after that. Kurasame nods off for a while, and when he opens his eyes again, the world is steadier and his stomach is far more settled than it had been before. His vision’s clearer too, and that allows him to see the man lying across from him quite well.  
  
(It could have been anyone else.  
  
There were plenty of Rubran soldiers and cadets that found Kurasame attractive.  
  
Why did it have to be-)  
  
“Ice Reaper,” comes the greeting.  
  
“General,” Kurasame grunts.  
  
 _So_ many other people could have gone to bed with him in a drunken stupor.  
  
But it had to be a Militesi soldier.  
  
It _had_ to be General Bashtar.  
  
The Tonberry, which is still sitting against Kurasame’s chest, takes that as his cue to start growling again.  
  
“Stop,” Kurasame groans.  
  
“Loyal little monster, isn’t it?”  
  
“ _He_ is very attached to me,” Kurasame remarks. “And he’s not terribly fond of the Militesi.”  
  
“That would explain the knife.”  
  
“Most Tonberries have those.”  
  
“They don’t always _use_ them.”  
  
“Neither has he- if he had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”  
  
The Tonberry purrs, pleased by the compliment.  
  
After a moment’s hesitation, Kurasame resigns himself to the fact that Bashtar isn’t magically going to disappear from his bed. He forces himself up onto his elbow, grimacing at the aches that awaken as he moves. “I’m having some difficulty remembering how this happened.”  
  
Bashtar makes no move to sit up, but does open his eyes.  
  
 _Both_ of them.  
  
There’s some minor scarring on the skin around the left one, but the eye itself is normal save for the pupil, which is unusually large. The Tonberry shifts under Kurasame’s arm, and he sees Bashtar’s damaged eye track the movement right along with the normal one- so he’s obviously not completely blind in it.  
  
Interesting.  
  
Bashtar regards Kurasame with a weary, but still somehow piercing, interest. “I wanted to see what was under your mask,” he says finally.  
  
“And I wanted to see what was under your eye-patch.”  
  
Bashtar’s inquiry had smacked of flirtation; Kurasame’s had smacked of smart-aleck.  
  
“It seems we both got our answers.” Bashtar’s eyes flick over Kurasame with a different sort of interest now.  
  
Abruptly, Kurasame realizes he isn’t wearing his mask.  
  
His instinct is to turn away, to duck his head and make the scars on the lower half of his face and neck less obvious. But that would be slamming the barn door shut after the Chocobos have already run out, so Kurasame resists the urge to cover his face and tries to hide any discomfort. “And after that?”  
  
Bashtar shrugs. “I can’t say I remember much.”  
  
Neither can Kurasame.  
  
So much for ‘de-escalating tensions’ with the Empire: Two officers of their renown getting wasted on hard liquor and fucking during the blackout is the sort of thing that lends itself to big, ugly, _high-tension_ scandals.  
  
Rumors still abound about the demise of Class Three, and of the other Champions of Rubrum. Whispers follow Kurasame wherever he goes.  
  
But he does not need any rumors that he’s ( _literally_ ) in bed with the Militesi Empire going around.  
  
He really doesn’t.  
  
Bashtar yawns and finally sits up, the sheets sliding down to barely cover his lap; he’s completely naked, and the sight stirs some vague memories of wandering hands and mouths in the dark. Kurasame pointedly doesn’t look at the naked curve of Bashtar’s hip and upper-thigh. “What time is it?”  
  
Kurasame rolls onto his back for a moment, checking the clock on the nightstand. “Nine forty-five.”  
  
Bashtar grunts in response, eyes rolling shut.  
  
“You need to be somewhere?”  
  
“Nothing so crucial that I’ll face much scrutiny.” Bashtar eyes Kurasame. “And you? Are any soldiers going to come knocking on your door looking for you?”  
  
The only ones that come to mind are Kazusa and Emina, and they have no reason to be looking for Kurasame now.  
  
And that’s good, because if they knew that he’d gone to bed with General Bashtar, Kurasame would never hear the end of it. When he died, it would be the one memory the Crystal wouldn’t be able to take from them. Kazusa would mock-weep at how Kurasame had chosen another man over him, and Emina would be asking for details.  
  
No, no, it’s best if they never find out.  
  
It’s best if _no one_ ever finds out.  
  
Bashtar got off the bed, movements far more fluid than they ought to be for someone as hungover as he must be. Kurasame pointedly covers the Tonberry’s eyes as the sheets fall away, though he can’t resist sneaking a look for himself: As badly a drunken decision as fucking Bashtar was, Kurasame can at least see the temptation he’d been struck with the night before. Bashtar might be a prick, but at least he’s an attractive one. The alcohol had probably helped.  
  
“So,” Bashtar remarks as he pulls his clothing on. “Do you hop into bed with every foreign military leader that gets drunk enough to look your way, or did you just find me especially appealing?”  
  
Alright: The alcohol had _definitely_ helped.  
  
“I barely remember anything,” Kurasame snaps. “I was drunk. For all I know, _you_ came on to me first.”  
  
“So was I,” Bashtar drawls. “But I doubt it.”  
  
“And why is that?”  
  
“Because I don’t throw myself at people when I’m drunk.”  
  
The growling kicks up again.  
  
“ _Stop_ that- can you please get my pants?” Kurasame sighs. The Tonberry sniffs, but toddles over to the side of the bed and hops off. Kurasame turns back to Bashtar and snorts. “And yes, I can see that. Do you think your superiors will care if you were the one doing the throwing or not?”  
  
Bashtar stops; his back is to Kurasame, and so he can’t see his expression. When he turns around, he seems visibly untroubled. “I doubt they care who I spend my off-duty time with. Why? Are you concerned that your little Consortium might decide to court-martial you for fucking the big, bad Militesi Officer?”  
  
“Of course not,” Kurasame responds, even though it’s an absolute lie: He might not get court-martialed for it, but one doesn’t need to be brought up on charges to face consequences for a misdeed. All pretenses of legality aside, the Consortium (and everyone else in Akademeia) would care greatly if they were to learn that Kurasame’s engaged in such an intimate way with a Militesi General.  
  
 _This can’t happen again_.  
  
Bashtar, the alcohol- any of it.  
  
Not fucking Bashtar will be simple enough, given the distance between them on any given day. But alcohol will have to become verboten too, because if _this_ is the sort of mistake he makes when he’s had too much, Kurasame can’t afford to be testing his luck in the future. If you had posed to him beforehand that he might get drunk enough to fuck General Bashtar, Kurasame would have rolled his eyes and dismissed it as idiocy of the highest order- or one of Emina’s fantasies.  
  
Kurasame’s learned his lesson now.  
  
Alcohol makes him prone to exceptionally stupid decisions, and he ought to give it up completely before he one-ups this act of lunacy and tries to take Cid Aulstyne himself to bed.  
  
Bashtar paces back over to the bed, to Kurasame’s side, and sits down beside him. Kurasame feels his skin prickle at the other man’s proximity as he sits up. Now that he’s (mostly) clothed, Bashtar cuts a somewhat more intimidating figure- it doesn’t help that Kurasame is still naked beneath the sheets and in no position to defend himself. The General brings a hand up to cup Kurasame’s jaw, thumb tracing over the scars on his cheek. “How old are you?”  
  
Kurasame doesn’t move, trying to keep his breathing steady. It’s been a long time since anyone’s examined his face so carefully, never mind touched it. “Twenty-four.”  
  
Bashtar chuckles. “The mask makes you seem older.”  
  
“The eye-patch has a similar effect on you.”  
  
“Does it?” Bashtar sounds amused.  
  
“Why do you wear it? I know you can see out of that eye.”  
  
A tiny, nearly-missed spark of surprise passes through Bashtar’s eyes; but it passes quickly. “I never claimed to be _completely_ blind in that eye.”  
  
“It’s the natural conclusion to draw.”  
  
“Just as it might be a natural conclusion to draw that you wear that mask because your face is mutilated beyond repair.” Bashtar smirks. “Pleasantly surprising to find that’s not the case, if I’m being honest.” His fingers are still tracing the scars. The sensation is odd, because some parts of this region of Kurasame’s face have limited or no sensitivity to touch. “Why cover this up with the mask? The damage isn’t nearly as bad as some have speculated.”  
  
Kurasame doesn’t blink. “I have my reasons.”  
  
(It’s not that the scars bother others; it’s that they bother _him_.  
  
He doesn’t remember why- he just feels it.)  
  
“I hope it’s a good one, to hide this away.”  
  
Bashtar kisses him, and Kurasame hates that his reflexes are still too dull to react quickly to it. There’s something familiar to this, something that feels better than Kurasame might want to admit to.  
  
 _I should stop this._  
  
But it feels good, and Kurasame very _rarely_ feels good like this.  
  
 _I really, really need to stop this._  
  
But instead Kurasame leans into it, and is starting to understand why he’d been so receptive when he was drunk; maybe he _had_ thrown himself at Bashtar, if this was what he had been confronted with.  
  
The hand that’s not still holding Kurasame’s face slips down to his lap, and Bashtar presses until Kurasame hisses and bucks against him. “Now _this,_ ” The General rumbles against Kurasame’s lips, “Is starting to feel familiar. I’m starting to regret how little I remember of last night.” He pushes Kurasame down against the bed. “Maybe we can fix that.”  
  
Kurasame shuts his eyes.  
  
 _I shouldn’t._  
  
But he badly, badly wants to.  
  
Kurasame’s fingers twist into Bashtar’s shirt.  
  
 _I already have- one more time won’t hurt._  
  
He opens his eyes and gives a quick nod.  
  
Bashtar smirks. “Well, then-”  
 ** _  
_**_**Grrrrr.**_  
  
He freezes.  
  
Kurasame realizes that his little Tonberry friend has crawled back onto the bed and picked up his knife again; he currently has the tip pressed against Bashtar’s chest. Evidently he doesn’t intend to let Kurasame make the same mistake again- that, or he had misinterpreted Kurasame’s hesitation for a lack of consent and is currently attempting to protect him.  
  
Bashtar slowly moves away from Kurasame, hands up. There’s still some amusement in his eyes, though, so either he doesn’t take the Tonberry as a serious threat, or he thinks Kurasame will call him off before he does any real harm. “Or not.”  
  
“It’s probably for the best,” Kurasame says, carefully reaching out with a finger and forcing the Tonberry’s blade down. “Your people will be missing you eventually.” He frowns. “I would appreciate you looking both ways when you leave my room. I don’t need the rumors.”  
  
“Of course you don’t, Reaper.” He glances warily at the Tonberry, and then reaches up to brush his fingers across Kurasame’s jaw again. “If you ever find yourself in Ingram, look me up.”  
  
Then he stands up, grabs his jacket off the floor, and leaves the room.  
  
(Without even pretending to check the hallway first, the bastard.)  
  
After a few seconds have passed, Kurasame sinks back into the bed and covers his eyes, groaning.  
  
The Tonberry toddles over and pats his head, uttering a soft coo intended to calm Kurasame down. Tonberries, as a rule, don’t make much noise, but this one seems perfectly happy to make sounds around Kurasame.  
  
“I appreciate you trying to look after me,” Kurasame sighs. “But for future reference, _please_ do not threaten my sexual partners with your knife.”  
  
The Tonberry sniffs.  
  
“Even the Militesi ones. Not that I think there will be more of them.”  
  
The Tonberry looks at him, and Kurasame has become well-versed enough in his micro-expressions to know what he’s saying.  
  
“No, Bashtar will not be coming back.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“I mean it.”  
  
Silence.  
  
Kurasame sighs again. “I’m going back to sleep.”  
  
The Tonberry nods, pats his head again, and then curls up in a ball and goes to sleep beside him.  
  
Kurasame pulls the sheets over his head and shuts his eyes.  
  
 _Never again._  
  
 _Never, ever again._  
  
-End


End file.
